Short Stay - Chapter Two (M/m; NC)

Three months previously

(Ryan's technical note: the interaction directly below is a text exchange, but the limitations of the Blogger platform mean I cannot represent this via speech bubbles, as I'd hoped. END) 

--Boo! I’m seeing a guy I think you’d love

----Hey. We should catch-up soon, it’s been a while! This guy is my type, you reckon?

--Yeah, totally. 24, fit and strong… great looking I think. Smooth body. Lean

----Sounds hot. You seen him a few times?

--Yeah three times. You have an empty basement at the minute? 😊

----Yes. Not actively looking to fill it ATM

--Oh? Ryan being good and playing nicely LOL

----Exactly

--Yeah right, fucking liar!

----Hehe. You reckon he’ll see you again?

--Yeah sure… he loves it… addicted to playing the naughty boy

----Nice. Need to go out – I have a lunch date. Do you want to send me this lad’s socials, and I’ll take a look and give you my opinion, princess?

--NP, will send links. His name is Kaden

----Oh, I like it already. Jaydens, Kadens… they tend to be ‘rough around the edges’ sexy boys.

--Well, I think so! Enjoy lunch honey. X

----X

It took me almost a full day to access the links Rochelle sent over after our encrypted chat, and even then, I only did so after remembering the self-destruct timer on our electronic conversations was set to 24 hours. It would have been embarrassing, after all her enthusiasm, to need to ask for a re-send.

In truth, Rochelle’s perception of my taste in young men was inconsistent. Not that my friend bombarded me with referrals, but of every five boys whose details she passed my way, four were unsuitable or frankly ‘meh’, to my eyes. Attractiveness is a very personal assessment, but also my standards were such that I considered only the crème of male youth.

Sat on the bench at the kitchen table, laptop open, I delved into the social media profiles of a young man who was – it became evident, quickly – not a prolific poster. The Twitter account in Kaden’s name had been dormant since 2016, when he would have been finishing school or sixth form college, I guessed. There were no posts of his own, and just a few retweets and likes of the juvenile banalities of presumed friends, and tweets associated with Chelsea football club and its periodic Premiership victories and in-match controversies. I deduced Kaden was unlikely to be an activist on the front line of any contemporary culture war, on either side, and I regarded that as wholly positive if correct. The boy’s negligible following/follower count gave away little.

Turning to Facebook, Rochelle had scoped for me a profile without a picture that was moderately locked to strangers, but anyway skeletal to the point that, really, any privacy settings were redundant. All I gleaned from this was that the stories of Generation Z not using this platform actively might be truer than I’d thought, and – as I foolishly hadn’t done so in 2000 – it was maybe too late to put Meta stock into my pension plan. However, then I remembered who owned Instagram!

Kaden’s ‘gram’ presented the richest source of material for my initial sifting assessment, and – crazy boy! – it was unlocked, with north of 2,000 followers and Kaden following over 800. I tended to think of the 2k follower crowd as being sub-influencer, but having somehow generated interest well beyond their friendship circle. Nobody has two thousand friends or even acquaintances, do they?

Scrolling, I established Kaden posted once a fortnight, on average. It didn’t take too long to reach his smattering of hard lockdown posts from April 2020: a cliched set of images featuring country walks under grey English skies, a makeshift gym in the garage, and a home baking effort. His girlfriend was called Libby, they appeared to live together, and had a golden retriever called Rollo that was a lockdown pup. If I hadn’t been scrolling with a hard purpose, I would have navigated away or drifted off to sleep at my kitchen bench: one of the two.

It occurred to me that I wasn’t viewing the profile of the ‘Kaden type’ I had speculated about, to Rochelle. The words I would use to describe this selection of images were settled, and homely. I had to remind myself this was a boy of 24, not 30, and whilst he didn’t look older than his years, the lifestyle curation was somewhat middle-aged and restrained. Think decent job and a certain amount to lose from exposure of excess, if in fact he partook of any ill-advised hedonism.  

I’d scrolled and clicked for at least five minutes before accepting I was still very interested in Kaden. If he’d been a ‘meh!’, then – well – I would have made the call within thirty seconds. The profile was safely generic, but here was a boy who rocked a white slim-fit button-up shirt paired with thigh-hugging pants, making a smart casual ensemble for his post-lockdown restaurant visit with Libby, duly snapped for the ‘gram.

There was no evidence of tattoos or bling jewellery, marking two positives for me and reinforcing my impression of a grounded, cautious boy.  

As Kaden’s timeline moved into the second half of 2021, the photographic locations became more varied as the world re-opened. Fuck, I don’t know how I missed the ‘skin post’ when first scrolling through, but there was Kaden on a sun lounger in Gran Canaria in August, bare but for stylish sunglasses and small, boxy swimming shorts in sky blue, with a white drawstring knotted into loops at his waist. I presumed Libby had taken the shot after first applying lotion to her man, who shone and gave a beaming smile for the phone camera, teeth gleaming and perfectly aligned. Mentally, I ticked ‘broad shouldered’, ‘pectoral definition’, and ‘smooth above the waist’ from my want list.

Good skin being another prerequisite of mine, I got hard in my chinos dwelling over that happy image of Kaden lounging poolside, his flesh utterly flawless as the camera recorded it, without obvious use of filters. Enlarging the photo surfaced no blemishes, and just a few dotted moles I judged not to detract from his beauty. The colour of honey on that Spanish holiday island, I reminded myself that Kaden’s skin would be paler now, after an English winter, as I didn’t see him as a tanning shop sort of guy.     

Though Rochelle could have told me with a fresh Telegram message exchange, I opted to sleuth Kaden’s height by reference to other people in group pictures, and doorways. Taller than most girls – and Libby – but sometimes a little shorter than males pictured alongside him, I deduced he stood at a pretty average 178cm, or thereabouts, which would make Kaden a decently compact male package, not at either ‘awkward’ end of the height spectrum.

Getting to his most recent posts, it clicked how Kaden came to have a such a healthy followership and a taut body. If I’d read his potted bio first, I would have known the boy played soccer semi-professionally for non-league outfit Coney Hall FC. Cross-tabbing to the football club website for reference, I confirmed he remained listed as a first team squad member, playing in defence, and there was a cropped head and shoulders pic with that now familiar smile, to prove as much.

Kaden had last posted to Instagram on Saturday evening, just gone. He was in a cramped changing room with teammates, still wearing the mud-stained kit of numerous sliding tackles, with hair bedraggled. Some of the men around him had already stripped their shirts off: a diverse squad with black, biracial and white skin tones, linking arms around shoulders and singing in celebration of a sporting victory that must have seemed significant on the day, to them, though hadn’t caused a ripple at regional level, even. Coney Hall played in the sixth tier of the English football league system, and that wasn’t a fact I knew until I Googled it at my kitchen table, I admit.

Kaden was highly contented in that changing room, pumping a fist as the owner of the camera took a ragged team photo. Later, he would have searched-out the image and reposted it with a puffed chest full of pride, and stories of athletic heroism for Libby that might become the stuff of his legend. 

I took a break, making myself a strong coffee from the machine. What did I know so far, about Kaden? Well, few post their failures and worries but, taken at face value, here was a boy who had got himself sorted with a steady girlfriend – and a pretty one – whilst living a fulfilling life, including participation in a team sport that matched his aptitude. He smiled a lot. Presumably, Kaden’s vaguely aspirational lifestyle was paid for by a blossoming early career, though that would require further online digging to confirm.

Rochelle had referred to me lots of duds, but here was an interesting prospect deserving of more time at my computer. Kaden looked like a 9.5/10, at least, but there was more to my attraction than his physique. Whenever I saw them young, straight, settled and happy, I’m afraid my inclination was to become the arch disruptor, pulling it all down to rubble: the best to re-build something new, and transformational.

Back at the table, I thought to check girlfriend Libby’s Instagram profile, before finalising my online trawl of Kaden resources. The girl’s account had no privacy settings activated, either. I gathered from her bio that Libby ran her own business, in events management, and that her IG feed was used in part for marketing purposes, and therefore not locked down. The brunette’s posts were safe, professionally focused, and more consistently curated than those of her boyfriend. I scrolled down to find Libby’s posts from the summer of 2021, eager to see whether she had a take on the Gran Canaria holiday which had produced by far the best pic on Kaden’s profile.

‘Yes!’ I whispered, to myself.

There they were, hand in hand, walking over soft sand barefoot at the waterline. The photograph was taken front-on by one of their party, or otherwise a helpful passer-by, and was well framed. Both heads were turned such that the clingy couple, smiles radiant, gazed gushingly into each other’s eyes. It was rather schmaltzy, and I noted that whilst Kaden had liked the post, dutifully, he hadn’t borrowed it for his own account. Also, they were colour coordinated, which spoke to the discipline of Libby’s social media management. She wore a small, sky-blue bikini set – to match his swim shorts – which presented her trim figure, curvaceous but not especially busty, positively. There was a breeze, billowing the silken ends of Libby’s straightened hair, which (when un-buffeted) fell to a level below her shoulder blades.

But I wasn’t here for her, I was here for him. Libby couldn’t be described as petite, I judged, as she was a little too tall for that moniker and toned in an attractively feminine way. Posed alongside his fit girlfriend, I got a better measure of Kaden’s scale and core power than could be obtained from any solo pic I’d searched-out to date. In the tautness of his abdomen, disturbed only by shallow corrugations, and in the gym-crafted breadth of his shoulders, were the foundations of a very special boy, in my book.

I found myself doing that tawdry gay thing, zeroing in on the swim shorts of a boy I was attracted to, in search of a bulge that would, probably, be just the way the fabric draped. A hopeless pursuit, unless the swimwear were Speedo, and Kaden was in those same boxy shorts from the sun lounger photograph that matched the profile of his strong thighs but gave nothing away in respect of dick. Not that a big shaft was ever a ‘must have’, for me, but sizing-up that which I would lock-away for weeks at a time was always a useful datapoint to know in advance.

Kaden had a modest trail of wispy hair, bridging belly button and his pubic bush: unseen in his shorts. I hadn’t noticed this happy trail in the sun lounger pic, but it would need to go of course, along with the more significant loss of the entirety of the bush itself.

The boy had large but shapely feet, digits perfectly proportioned and straight, though caked with damp sand between the toes in this joyful holiday snap. I saw no sign of injury or disfigurement from soccer played robustly.

I rested my eyes and took two large gulps of coffee from the mug. Reflecting, I recognised I was on the pathway of ‘talking myself into it’, but not irreversibly. 

On the basis I didn’t understand Snapchat, whether Kaden had one or not, I navigated over to LinkedIn though it wasn’t a site for which Rochelle had provided a profile link. I guessed the boy wouldn’t have set himself up there, as he didn’t strike me as being a white-collar salaryman and was a bit young to be networking proactively. Yet I was wrong, as Kaden was both listed and easy to locate, with his uncommon name.

The boy had been working as a commercial vehicle fleet salesman with Mercedes-Benz for four years, having not gone to university, so was probably hired on some sort of apprenticeship scheme. I supposed that the job paid attractive commissions – sales dependent – and these funded rent on the tidy home seen in the couple’s Instagram feeds, plus their beach holidays in warmer climes. Piecing together the jigsaw, I recalled seeing Kaden posing with pride beside a newish A-Class Mercedes – one of the hotter AMG variants, I think – which made perfect sense if the manufacturer offered favourable lease terms to its employees.  

I summoned a mental image of Kaden the enthusiastic youth in slim-fit white formal shirt and thigh-clinging black pants, eyes twinkling as he tried to flog me a Vito panel van, whilst I churned thoughts of him in the back of one, tied and gagged, stripped to his underwear and struggling. Sell me a fantasy, Kaden, whilst I haggle protractedly with you over the finance interest rate.

*******

‘Well, that’s a let-down. You’re greedy!’ I said.

She giggled at my stern-faced pomposity.

‘I’m serious, Rochelle. You’re offering me sloppy seconds,’ I continued, but my lips curved into a thin smile. We were still friends.

The location of our meeting was a flat above a fried chicken shop, just off one of the main drags in Streatham. When the wind was low and the fryers were on, the sickly odour of fat wafted upstairs from the extractor vents.

Whilst the exterior of the property was sad, with flaking paint on the window frames and vegetation sprouting in the sagging guttering, the interior of Rochelle’s flat was freshly decorated, at least, and the furnishings cheap but new and quite cheerful. This wasn’t a depressing space, once you closed the door on the tired communal parts.

Here wasn’t Rochelle’s home, for she’d bought a substantial detached house, requiring modernisation to her tastes and somewhere down Coulsdon way, the year before last. I’d never been there, and nor was I expecting an invite any more than I’d ask Rochelle to my place of sanctuary. This flat was Rochelle’s place of work, and I was slotted-in between her clients.

The girl had just dropped the bombshell that Kaden had been anally curious, and she had obliged him with a plug to his boy hole. Obviously, I expected my young men to be unsullied on day one, all the better to learn ass work the Ryan way. I had to assess the damage and see whether there was a deal-breaking situation here.

‘How many times, Rochelle?’ I asked.

‘Oh, just the once. He wanted to feel what it was like, to scratch an itch, you know?’

‘So, please tell me this was nothing more than a training toy, right?’

The girl snorted, disappearing momentarily into the only bedroom of the apartment, where I’d noted whilst passing that the curtains were almost fully closed, leaving just a column of sunlight. Rochelle returned through the living room doorway with her left hand cupped, cradling what could fairly be described as a miniaturised plug, in black silicone: a scale model of a true ass tool.

‘Do you have anything smaller, mate?’ I asked, straight-faced, and she cackled appreciatively at my dry wit.  

The insertable length of the cone was a bare three inches, whilst the maximum circumference was less. The mould – the simplest conceivable – was a sub-£10 trinket on the LoveHoney website, I reckoned.

‘You used lube, yeah?’ I checked.

‘Oh fuck, yeah,’ Rochelle said. ‘His first time, and all that.’

‘And how did Kaden respond to the plug, dare I ask?’

The girl put the bonsai toy down on the sideboard, stepped back, and threw her arms open in readiness for a piece of theatre.

‘Ahhhh! Awwww! Take it slowwwwly, please! Ahhh, FUCK me! Awwww….shit!!’

I laughed and gave a small round of applause for Rochelle’s dramatic reconstruction of a straight boy’s deflowering. Rochelle took a bow.

‘I’m still angry with you, though,’ I added.

‘What could I do?’ Rochelle shrugged. ‘He’s paying. He gets what he asks for.’

‘And did he ask for more ass experimentation, later?’ I pushed.

‘No, that play wasn’t repeated,’ Rochelle said, sounding serious, now.

‘Did it make him hard?’ I asked.

‘Nah… not the ass stuff. Not at all.’

It wasn’t a disaster, I figured. And I reminded myself that had my friend not been honest, there’s no way I’d have known that Kaden’s boy cunt wasn’t virginal.

‘So, what does turn him on?’

Rochelle seated herself at the far end of the long leather sofa, kicking-off the stiletto on her right foot and throwing that leg up, onto the cushion, such that her stockinged limb probed my personal space at the other end of the chair, where she had beckoned me to sit a few minutes earlier.

My some-time accomplice was dressed wholly in black. Rochelle was a lady with a wardrobe of many outfits, all of which appeared to be the same colour, leavened on occasion by chunky jewellery with prominent rocks. If she got changed for work purposes, I imagined it was into something (even) more provocative, but still dark.

‘A few things, we keep returning to,’ Rochelle answered.

‘Yeah?’

‘Well, role play is a big hit with Kaden.’

‘Ah, okay. And what is your role?’ I asked.

‘Teacher, or headmistress,’ Rochelle said. ‘He likes to play a pupil caught red-handed doing something extremely embarrassing, like jerking-off in the toilets, which he is forced to confess to me in detail.’

‘Ha! Naughty boy. Is there any dressing-up involved?’

‘Well, I’m the most scantily-dressed headmistress imaginable,’ Rochelle grinned. ‘The school inspectors would have me closed-down.’

‘Not you, honey, I meant him!’ I laughed.

‘Yeah, kind of. Black formal trousers and a white shirt. Black shoes. It’s a stab at school uniform.’

‘School tie?’ I asked.

‘You’re getting invested in this fantasy aren’t you, Ryan?’ Rochelle said, wagging a long finger at me, mock sternly. ‘But yeah, I supply the school tie, in fact. It’s part of my… costume wardrobe.’

‘Ah, right. And, presuming Kaden’s breach of the school rules is a serious one, of which you’re the judge, then after a strong talking-to you punish him how?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, he might bend over a chair, or get onto all-fours on the sofa or bed. Mostly I’ve hand-spanked him, but last time I used a paddle on his ass,’ Rochelle said.

‘Okay. And what sort of intensity are we talking about?’

‘Oh, nothing serious. I just redden his bare cheeks – you know – though I suppose I’ve been building him up a bit, over time. Spank him, tell him what a bad boy he’s been, and to keep his hands away from that dick which only causes him trouble.’

‘And this gets him hard, but he can’t touch, yeah?’ I checked.

‘Yeah, exactly,’ Rochelle said. ‘Denial is part of the game, you know?’

‘Yeah, I get it.’

‘Like, if he’s booked me for an hour, then I try and keep him on the boil until nearly the end.’

‘Fun to play with?’ I asked, curious.

‘Mmm… yeah,’ Rochelle said, sounding unconvinced of her answer. ‘It’s business, isn’t it, so I never get close to them. He’s a bit stiff and…. nervous, you know? He thinks he wants thrills but, in reality, nothing racy. He’s quite young, though.’

‘And hot?’ I suggested.

‘Glad you think so!’ Rochelle giggled, playing with her extensions. ‘His body is amazing. I mean, it’s quite sad he’s paying for something that any sane girl would dish out to him for free, but I can’t complain!’

‘Not quite your type though, babe?’ I pushed.

‘Nah,’ Rochelle said. ‘Too boyish and a bit naive, I think.’

‘Too boyish isn’t a thing, Rochelle,’ I said, and she shook her head in feigned disapproval, all the while smirking.

Not that I could dispute Rochelle’s assessment of the target boy, but fuck, she had the ability to make me ‘stiff and nervous’, if she so desired. There in one package was the countenance of a young Grace Jones; the nutcracker thighs of Venus Williams: and a complementary toy cupboard. Little wonder a kid of 24 didn’t quite know what to say, or where to look.

‘Anything else push his buttons?’ I asked.

‘Well, he likes to be jerked-off by hand,’ Rochelle said.

‘A horny boy?’

‘Yeah, of course. I keep him simmering, right on-edge, sometimes denying him when he’s about to spurt.’

‘He gets frustrated with you?’

‘Yes, lots of moaning and cursing: he finds it tough. But then, he asks for the same treatment next time, so…’ Rochelle’s sentence petered-out as she shrugged. 

‘So, as with the role play, part of him likes to surrender control and leave his domme to take charge?’ I proposed. It was a blindingly obvious deduction, really.     

‘Yeah, it’s sexual escapism, isn’t it? Just for an hour or so, once a month maybe.’

‘Yes, so perhaps he doesn’t get these sorts of experiences at home?’ I wondered out loud.

‘Well,’ Rochelle faltered, choosing her words carefully. ‘It’s not my place to be a sounding board, unless they want to unload and use me as an expensive therapist!’

‘Oh, understood,’ I conceded quickly, conscious my barrage of questions might have seemed overly intense.    

‘But yeah, I would guess that the sex he has with his girlfriend is pretty vanilla, y’know? We don’t speak about it, though,’ Rochelle said, pursing her lips.  

‘No, fair enough. Any other regular requests?’ I asked.

The girl drummed her long, painted nails on the sofa cushion, summoning her recollections of several encounters with Kaden who was, after all, just one of dozens of her clients.

‘He likes to eat out my pussy!’ Rochelle blurted.

‘Oh? And does he do it well?’

‘He’s enthusiastic,’ Rochelle said. ‘Maybe he hasn’t found all of my pleasure points yet!’

I nodded. It wasn’t a subject on which I judged it appropriate to pry further, though I registered the inference of Kaden’s technique being a work in progress.

‘And bondage,’ Rochelle followed-up. ‘We’ve done a bit of that: rope work, cuffs, cords. That sort of thing.’

‘Ah right, helpful. At a basic level, again?’ I checked.

‘Yeah, I guess you’d call it that. Sometimes his hands are tied out of the way when I edge his dick… so he can’t interfere, you know?’

‘Yes, got you.’

‘So, anything else you want to know?’ Rochelle asked, with emphasis. ‘Perhaps you want to take it away and think about it? Come back to me?’

Pointedly, the girl picked-up her phone to check the time.

‘You think I’d enjoy him? I asked, because I did, ultimately, value Rochelle’s assessment of a boy’s character and his potential.

‘I thought of you within ten minutes of meeting Kaden,’ Rochelle said.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes. I think he’d be excellent, for the hard struggle with you. He’s a complete package, for your tick list.’

‘Sure?’

‘Surer than I was about Sam, even,’ Rochelle nodded, referencing the second of three boys she’d passed my way, who I’d commended to her as a superstar and my all-time favourite.

‘Okay,’ I said, clasping my hands with a clap. ‘So, has Kaden made plans to meet you again?’

‘Not yet, but he tends to be very spontaneous. Meets often happen within a day or two of his messages.’

‘And, have you managed to drop into conversation the well-equipped playroom and sauna in the countryside?’ I asked.

‘Oh yes,’ Rochelle said, poking me teasingly with her foot. ‘I started sowing that seed the second time I met him, just in case you were interested, you know?’

‘Is he taking the bait?’ I asked. It was the all-important question. Otherwise, I needed another plan or another boy.

‘He’s sounded very keen,’ Rochelle said. ‘I’ve sold it well, showed him the pictures, everything. Really, it’s just your say-so I’m waiting for.’

I fidgeted, rocking back and forth on the sofa, processing everything I knew about Kaden and finding the strength to commit to him. Rochelle gave me twenty uninterrupted seconds to do so.

‘I’m ready to move quickly, when his message comes. Let’s hope it does,’ I pronounced.

‘Ryan, we’re in business again,’ Rochelle whooped, advancing a fist for me to bump to seal the deal.

‘Usual terms,’ I confirmed.

‘Sure, usual terms, honey,’ she purred.

I was parked two blocks away: a short walk through the perpetual hubbub of street life in transient, anonymous London suburbia. This was a good place for Rochelle to hole-up and entertain her men, and boys.

Back at the car, I just sat for a bit and let nagging doubt gnaw at me as it always did, once I’d committed to go through with another boy. It was true what I’d said to Rochelle when she first messaged me about this opportunity, that I wasn’t actively looking. It was only last summer I’d done Brandon, after all, and he’d been a handful to manage and not my favourite. Brandon had been hard work, for not quite enough sexual/emotional/financial/risk reward, which was kind of a downer when considering re-immersing myself in the process.

Still, I had an encrypted Signal chat group full of contacts, pestering me for news of upcoming shows and ‘business opportunities’ with trained boys.

I found myself scrolling through Libby’s public Instagram feed again. Kaden’s girlfriend was very pretty, I’d decided, though not in a showy ‘lust at first sight’ way. I made a running assumption that she was also quite smart. He’d done well for himself, but then, so had she. I didn’t sense that either of them had punched above their weight in finding a partner. 

There they were just yesterday, clinking glasses at a bar table, Kaden with a pint and Libby with a large white wine, so cool it had frosted the glass. Rollo was at their feet. It was all such a shame for them, but it needed to be done, now.   

******* 

Rochelle’s Range Rover Evoque drew-up on my forecourt, the scattering of pea gravel under the 4x4’s tyres alerting me to the arrival. Camera 1, trained on the yard, showed the girl exiting the vehicle first, with many seconds elapsing before the passenger door opened, from where Kaden emerged.

There was hesitation whilst a short conversation ensued, with the boy pointing back to the car. Whilst there was no sound on this feed, my assumption was that Kaden had brought a bag or coat with him – perhaps both – and was deliberating whether to bring them in or leave them, safe enough, in the locked SUV. They walked in, Rochelle leading, with Kaden carrying nothing.

The studio was accessed directly from the entrance lobby and monitored by camera 3, to which feed I switched. I watched an imperfect picture with poor quality audio, because the equipment was concealed in a wall-mounted air conditioning unit. With their assorted furtive reasons for visiting this facility, I reckoned on boys having strong ‘no filming’ rules. Obvious AV tech would have set alarm bells ringing, too early.    

However, Kaden appeared happy enough, stopping on the threshold to clock the half-dozen items of playroom furniture he’d seen in Rochelle’s photographs, verifying her stories of this sensual kink palace and thereby easing his nerves.

‘Fuck, yeah!’ the boy said, patting a utilitarian spanking horse, with black leather pommel and grey powdered metal legs.

‘You fancy bending over that, later, sweetie?’ Rochelle responded, nurturing the boy’s arousal.

‘Totally!’

Ignoring what he may have left in Rochelle’s car, the boy had arrived dressed in a navy-blue T-shirt, blue denim jeans and white Nike trainers. Nothing wrong with any of that, except it was taking him so damn long to get out of the gear, and I was impatient in my control room closet.

Rochelle was ushering Kaden on a guided tour of the dungeon furniture, as though she were some sort of proud museum curator. I supposed she had been judging his mood on the 20-mile car journey from south London to the weald of Kent and had decided the kid needed some confidence instilling, before he was invited to strip for her.

From half-sentences caught by the hidden microphone, and his varied facial expressions on the playroom explainer, I formed an understanding as to the pieces of kit which excited, intrigued or repelled the athlete.

‘Hurry the fuck up!’ I found myself murmuring. The suspense, as they say, was killing me.

Now they were on the lipstick-red sofa in the corner, talking, with Kaden downing a double vodka and Coke that Rochelle had fetched him from the well-stocked minibar, whilst the girl abstained. She was driving, after all.

Aside from the S&M furniture, pride of place in the studio was taken by an emperor bed set against the far wall. The frame had an industrial vibe, crafted from tubular steel, whilst the bed sheet and pillowcases were in black, rubber-like polyurethane fabric: fluid proof, and tactile. Partly to dress the room, but also by way of a gift from Kaden (nominally) to his dominatrix, I’d laid a bunch of red roses dead centre on the mattress.

If the bedding looked unslept upon – the pillows uniformly plump, and unruffled by heads – that’s because it had barely been touched by naked flesh. This studio was ‘upstairs’ and everything within it for display purposes only. The toil of a boy happened in the basement.

There was a spell of intense conversation between them, the contents of which were impossible for me to decipher beyond a few words heard, or lipread, here and there. The girl shuffled closer to the boy on the sofa, thrusting a hand between his man-spread thighs and appearing to squeeze down, in the vicinity of Kaden’s crotch. The kid was all smiles.

Then, abruptly, Kaden was up and stripping, and I too had to shake myself down because my cue was, surely, getting imminent now. His T-shirt was over his head, off and chucked in a flash, whilst his barely laced sneakers were kicked from his feet, bouncing off the wall beside the sofa. The Kaden I’d invested in, financially and emotionally, was starting to emerge and – holy shit! – he wasn’t disappointing.

Kaden ran long fingers through his hair, sorting disturbances to the waves caused by the brushing fabric of his T-shirt and checking his restorative effort quite vainly in a wall mirror, to which he strutted back and forth.  

Before losing his snug jeans, the athlete attended to the bulge in the front left pocket which, as expected, was his phone. Rochelle, I could see by her pointing, suggested the console table next to the doorway as a suitable place to lay down the iPhone, for the duration of the session, and Kaden acted unhesitatingly.

The jeans were so hugging they needed to be peeled from Kaden’s legs. Rochelle watched, arms folded over her bust, whilst the boy wrestled with the denim and switched from one foot to the other, yanking the garment over his feet and jangling the clasp of his leather belt.

As the boy’s exquisite legs were revealed, every bit as toned and smooth as I’d anticipated, I noticed something else. The hue of Kaden’s skin wasn’t ‘English February pale’, but ‘Mediterranean winter sunshine’: a uniform, lightly tanned, pale brown. There had been a recent holiday, I concluded, but probably just a week.

The jeans crumpled at Kaden’s feet, and he added his white ankle socks to the pile, flexing his liberated toes. Eventually, the garments discarded so casually by Kaden as though they were rags would be picked-up by me, folded neatly, and stored – unwashed – in protective tissue paper layers, within a souvenir box labelled Kaden: Boy 12.

Just the underwear, then. With no visible embarrassment, Kaden hooked fingers under the elasticated waistband of his Emporio Armani boxer briefs in black, and rolled the cotton down his legs, evenly to the left and right. Where his T-shirt was off in an instant, the process of shedding the designer underwear, as viewed on my monitor, was slower – more deliberate – like the garment was precious or fragile. Some residual nervousness, maybe? I hoped so: I don’t like them too bold and carefree.

Kaden stepped from his EA’s. I was right about the recent holiday. The kid’s ass globes were markedly paler than his adjoining thigh meat and there was a tan line of sorts, but not a hideously abrupt gradation. Those powerful mounds: now, they really were English February pale. Unblemished, hairless, muscular plains in cream.

The boy made a vertical jump by way of shakedown, like a soccer warm-up ritual, star-bursting with his arms. There was just a suggestion of rigidity about his dick shaft with the uncut crown.

At Rochelle’s summoning, Kaden moved to a low table at the foot of the bed, his plump nut sac jiggling with every step. There, on the table, was Kaden’s choice of corporal punishment instrument. The boy was encouraged to select from a walnut paddle, a flogger, and a rattan cane. It was free choice, though the girl conceded that Kaden had already experienced some paddle work in her apartment (too boring to repeat?), whilst the cane could feel sharp (too biting?), but still, ‘It’s your choice, K. We’ll go with whatever you pick, and I’ll be gentle if you want it gentle’.

Duly influenced, more than subconsciously, Kaden decided he’d like to try the flogger with thirty tails of hide and rubber, but was clear in establishing his limits which I heard in full:

‘Just for play, yeah? Cos I’m not sure I’m gonna like this, and my girlfriend is back in three days so I can’t be, like, too red.’

‘Sure, it’s just a bit of fun, a bit of role play, exactly how you like it, right?’ Rochelle cooed.

‘Yeah, like, quite light?’

‘Dusted like a feather, that’s all, K. But a new experience for you, still.’

‘Sure, I’m cool with it.’

‘Great! And there’s two things that most boys try wearing, to increase the sensuality of the experience, and I’d really like you to try them too, Kaden.’

‘Ahh… what’s that?’

‘Just for fifteen… twenty minutes, whilst I bring you gradually to a high and you’re ready to fuckin’ BURST YOUR NUTS for me!’

‘Tell me, what?’

And then, poised for my introduction, I had to sit down again in the closet whilst Rochelle went through a painful cycle of explanation, selling of benefits, and the overcoming of concerns around both the steel chastity cage and the modest ball gag she proposed to apply to her young charge, to enhance his erotic experience.

Kaden was deliciously cautious. The boy understood he was to surrender control for a while: not just the soft control of playing student to Rochelle’s domineering headmistress in the Streatham flat, but the hard controls of losing voice and sexual autonomy, effectively at her pleasure. The athlete was inclined to take Rochelle’s word for it that this would be hot – fuck, it had always been mega-hot before, with this dark temptress – but there was nagging doubt writ on his face, even as Rochelle’s cold hands slipped the boy’s prick into steel, making the hefty meat fit the tube before clicking the padlock, and isolating his pleasure.

Clear nervousness, too, and questioning as to whether he was doing the right thing, as Rochelle invited Kaden to open his mouth and accept the spherical gag bit, to be fastened by buckle at the back of his skull.

‘This is alright, yeah?’ Kaden sought reassurance, as the dominatrix held the ball at his jaws, ready for insertion.

‘Ride of a lifetime, K,’ Rochelle promised, inserting the firm globe gently into his oral cavity.

I rarely felt sorrow for a boy, but this was at least poignant. Twenty minutes in chastity, Kaden had been told: and he wasn’t sure about it. Twenty minutes.

And then, as they’d agreed on the sofa, it was time to attach Kaden to the wall-mounted St Andrews cross, as his first piece of apparatus in this sexy studio. The boy stood front-on to the tall X, stretching him vertically, but the frame wasn’t of vast breadth, so the necessary spread of ankles and wrists was perfectly manageable.

Efficiently, lest the youth waver in his resolve to have fun in this way, Rochelle fastened all four leather cuffs restraining Kaden’s limbs at their outermost extremities. The wrist attachments required her to mount a small wooden step, and then reach. The boy stretched in his new bondage, testing it for relative discomfort, and for the constraints upon his movement. Free, the kid’s neck swivelled his head back and forth, left and right, darting and tense. 

The girl retrieved Kaden’s chosen flogger from the table of three optional stingers, and began to drape the tails over his thighs, weaving from inner to outer and down to the boy’s calves, tickling.

‘Feeling good, honey-buns?’

‘Mmm!’

Rochelle let tails cascade over Kaden’s ass meat, falling down the walls of his crack.

‘Oh, fuck! Left my phone in the car. It’ll be on silent, but – y’know – I get jittery if it isn’t with me. Don’t go anywhere, Kaden.’

The domme about-turned and made for the doorway. I’d been given my cue.

As I left the control room closet, a final glance back at the monitor showed Kaden’s eyes following Rochelle’s path from the studio. He looked spooked, at that moment. Phone separation anxiety was pretty much universal amongst Generation Z, yet, maybe Rochelle’s sudden move didn’t feel right? Told a plausible story there was an intuition already, I thought, that all was not as it seemed. It’s a shame, really, when they start to suspect before they meet me.

I didn’t know whether Kaden had seen Rochelle pick-up his own iPhone from the console table, on her way out. She was practised in sleight of hand and the lifting went unnoticed, more often than not. Kaden’s mobile would be going on a long drive with Rochelle, back towards his home patch, and then on a meandering walk in the woods, where CCTV didn’t reach. At some point the phone would be switched off and then, days later, buried; burnt, or sunk in the river. This was all part of Rochelle’s service, for which I incurred significant up-front costs I hoped to recoup later.

It wasn’t a long walk, along hallways to the studio. The flogger had been left for me, on that console table at the doorway.

I was naked.

‘Hey,’ I said.

*******

‘Hey’, I said again.

But this time I was right behind his spread-eagled perfectness, breathing down his neck as I started to touch, so very gently.

And where to start? I was the kid in the candy store cliché. Maybe the golden musculature of his thighs, soft yet substantial? Perhaps the convex domes of his ass, unyieldingly firm? Or, trace an image with a single loving finger, from the breadth of his shoulders zig-zagging to the tuck of his hips?

There was the most wonderful soundtrack as I agonised and implemented, of leather stretching and wood creaking. Kaden fought the cross, battling his bondage and the solidity of the fixings of the X itself, to the wall. I had little fear of his efforts, for stronger boys had stress-tested this apparatus.

The violence of Kaden’s struggle stood in contrast to the tenderness of my first touch.

‘Keep calm,’ I said, in a velvety tone.

‘Ommmfff!’ Kaden protested, jerking at his bonds.

I felt a sense of entitlement to enjoy Kaden immediately. First, this was a gift to myself and it was expensive. Secondly, the next few days – it could be two or as many as five, from experience – would be marked by his resistance and mutual frustration, devoid of intimate touch, until Marco and I subdued the boy. This one needed reconditioning to accept free-roaming hands, but locked to the St Andrews cross his acceptance was not required.

My open palms caressed Kaden’s thighs, working from the outside, in, and up towards his crotch. The tiny, silky hairs of his legs – and forearms - had bleached blonder on that winter sun vacation, I suspected. All the while I was contemplating small enhancements to be made, and soon: patches where depilatory treatments would be beneficial; muscle mass might be developed further by Marco, or where Kaden’s hairline could be tidied of several days’ worth of fluff, at the back of the neck.     

If my favoured ‘type’ was more than a twunk, but much less than a muscle mountain, then I’d hit jackpot/all-time top 3 status with this latest acquisition, based on physique alone. We’d see where Kaden placed after character was included in the assessment, but for now I was enchanted with the raw material.   

As I got to his ass mounds with my hands Kaden heaved in his bondage and twisted his leather cuffs, trying to turn away from my probing, but it was a futile effort. When it was time to explore his crack – and I don’t mean his boy hole, even, but just the great divide with my slid fingertips – then Kaden became frenetic, tugging and yanking and near spraining himself in rejection of my advances.

‘Mmmaawww!’ I’m sure it meant ‘no!’, ‘stop!’ and ‘fuck off, faggot!’, all in one.  

It was a special rump, and I was holding an erection just inches from it, therefore I understood but couldn’t condone Kaden’s defensiveness.

‘So, Rochelle told me the flogger is your favourite pain toy, right?’ I proposed.

‘Nnnnaawww!’

‘Okay, pleased you agree. So, I’m going to let you have it, and at the same time I’ll answer a few of the questions you would be asking, if you could.’

I held the flogger by its ribbed grip and shook it twice behind Kaden’s back, unfurling the multiple tails and re-familiarising myself with the feel of the tool, ready for deployment. There were several harsher stingers in the basement, unsuitable for the studio selection, but this one had sufficient capacity to stun a novice boy.

‘Five key questions; five answers for you, and five lashes per Q and A, okay? I proposed, as though this were to be collaborative. ‘But, too much writhing and I’ll add a sixth question, and five more lashes, so try to make a static target for the whip, Kaden.’

‘Awwww!’

The kid had turned his head as far as he could, to plead with me through the medium of terrified eye contact as he moaned protest.

I made practice strokes at Kaden’s left flank, and my strong over-shoulder delivery set the tails whooshing as they sliced air. The boy’s panicked wriggling stepped-up another gear.      

‘Question One, is ‘WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU’?’ I tendered, on the athlete’s behalf. ‘Well, this one has a short answer. My name is just Sir, for your purposes, and that’s how you’ll address me when you need to speak.’

My first volley of five lashes was landed on Kaden’s ass mounds: left, right and centre, unpredictably. The level of applied strength was hard – not quite severe – and my pace even, pausing between strokes just momentarily, to regain composure and line-up my next shot to target.

It was bad luck for Kaden, as it had been for the boys before him, to encounter an ambidextrous whipmaster, but then he was enflaming the tension between us by trying to turn his precious globes away from the trajectory of my flogger: the tool the boy himself had chosen! This was not the session Rochelle would have delivered, I conceded.

‘Question Two, is ‘Will you let me go, tonight’? I tabled. ‘And, again, there is a simple answer here. I’m sorry to say, Kaden, that you won’t be leaving me tonight, this weekend, or next week. You must prepare yourself for a short stay.’

My second volley of shots were to the boy’s left thigh, from the back of his knee up to the curve into his rump, meeting the stripes of his butt-whipping sequence at myriad angles. Every thudding, jerk-initiating whipcrack painted a little more of my idealised canvas red raw, spoiling it really, but this process was necessary. An objective of training was to work for the day the flogger, whip and cane might no longer be necessary.    

‘Your question three, Kaden, is ‘What do you want from me!?’ I proposed. ‘Now, a full answer to this question could become a tediously long answer, which neither of us have time for, so here’s a headline summary. I want your surrender, and then your total submission. Also, I expect to see you work exceptionally hard, and I absolutely require you to keep me entertained each day, through that work.’

My third volley of five lashes were to Kaden’s right thigh. Whilst the boy squirmed desperately when under attack still, between rounds he started to slump in his bondage, panting, as his world fell apart.

‘Question four on the tip of your lips then, Kaden, is ‘Are you a fuckin’ pervert!?’ I asked for him. ‘And unfortunately, your answer is that, yes, I’m very gay, very twisted, and deeply sadistic, with a dangerous loving streak. What this means for you, Kaden, is that it will soon become critical you work with me, and not against me. I suppose that sounds hard, right? But I’ll be with you every step of the way giving clear instructions, pushing you and improving you. Remember, my loving streak?’

For the fourth round of corporal punishment, I centred on Kaden’s upper back, using both whip hands unpredictably again to slash him across the breadth of his shoulders, and criss-crossing the last two strokes at new diagonals.

The straight boy roared around his ball gag, hauling his torso four inches up the creaking cross in a statement of defiance, I thought.

‘Any time you need to bite down hard on a gag, then you do, yeah?’ I suggested. ‘I have plenty here, Kaden. If you snap a gag, crush a gag… whatever… then totally fine. I’m here for your performance, and not to count pennies.’

Where I’d flogged him hard, twenty times now, the fruit of my labour was beginning to show in rising welts across his flawless flesh.

‘Question five, and an important one, Kaden, is ‘What should I do, to help myself?’ I asked. ‘Now, if that was genuinely a burning question of yours, then well done and I’m impressed. Your answer is that you should close your mouth and use your ears. Listen carefully to what I say, and to what I require you to do, and act immediately upon it. If there’s an instruction you don’t understand, then it’s okay to ask me to explain, but it’s never okay to try and engage me in conversation. Finally, you’re going to feel a lot of anger in the time ahead, towards me. I have a challenge for you, which is to harness that anger and turn it on yourself, at those times I ask you to do something which is entirely against your instincts.’

‘Mmmaawww!’ Kaden wailed objection.

I saw the kid was frothing drool around his gag now, indignant and pained.

For the fifth volley of lashes, I returned to Kaden’s pert ass, this time still harder and damn close to ‘severe’ in intensity, smashing into his quivering rump with loud, rubbery thwacks that set the boy jolting and squealing. Kaden looked back at me with wild, furious eyes I’d not yet seen, but would assuredly see again.

‘Hey,’ I said, running an open palm across ass muscle I’d just transformed from cream to raspberry red, feeling the radiant heat and his fury. ‘It’s going to be okay, yeah?’ I tried to calm him, nibbling at his neckline, damp with perspiration. 

I took two steps backward and resumed air-flogging in Kaden’s immediate vicinity, not quite done, yet.

‘Alright, soldier, I’m sure you had a sixth question for me,’ I said.

‘Nnnaawww!’

‘Well, you were writhing like hell. I was convinced you wanted another!’

‘Mmmaawww!’ 

‘So, your sixth question was ‘Why me?’ I asked for him. ‘And, I’m going to tell you, after we’ve warmed your back a little more.’

My final volley of lashes was freestyle from Kaden’s thighs to his shoulder blades, delivered in twenty-five seconds flat, at full intensity from over my shoulder. It left me puffed and slightly drained, emotionally.

The boy was tearful for the first time, but silently so and not sobbing for sympathy. Just some sniffing, to stop his runny snot falling.

‘You, because you’re ruggedly pretty in a quite unique way,’ I said, answering the self-posed question. ‘Also, you became available to me, when you started to see Rochelle behind poor Libby’s back. So, whenever you ask why, think of it as a morality tale, Kaden.’

*******